Derek Robinson - Piece of Cake

“I can easily arrange to have him maimed, if you like,” Barton said. “I mean, we have the weapons.” The wing commander’s eyes opened wide.

“He was obviously suffering from shock,” Bletchley declared.

“His controls must have been useless,” Dalgleish said. “Shot to pieces.”

“Not according to his wingman,” Barton said. “He told me it was just engine-failure, he—”

“And what he doesn’t know,” Bletchley said, “is the kite crashed into a row of houses in Ashford and killed four people, including an infant.”

“Oh,” Barton said.

“So it must have been out of control, mustn’t it?” Dalgleish said. “Otherwise it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Well, that’s certainly a point of view, sir,” Barton said.

“Look: it’s absolutely paramount that the press don’t get wind of this,” Bletchley said. “No loose talk in pubs, no gossip in letters home. Understand, Barton? Tell your chaps to forget it ever happened. And I want to see that pilot as soon as he turns up.”

“Right, sir.”

“And Barton,” Dalgleish said, “I know it’s difficult upstairs, but can’t you do something about your squadron’s language? It all gets relayed over the Tannoy in the ops room, you know, and the Waafs hear you fellows stiffing and blinding like fishwives.”

“If the controllers didn’t mess us about, sir, we wouldn’t have so much to swear at.”

“They have a very difficult job,” Bletchley said.

“Yes, sir. And some of them can’t do it.”

“Be fair, old boy. What about all those kills you’ve got?”

“And what about all the scrambles that lead to nothing?”

Dalgleish sighed. “You expect rather a lot, don’t you? Is there anything else we can do for you?”

“Yes, sir, since you ask: I’d like fuel-injection, a radio that transmits more than forty miles, and a catering officer who knows what peas and beans do to the average fighter pilot’s stomach at twenty thousand feet. A couple of days ago some of my chaps got scrambled after lunch and they nearly blew themselves in half.”

Dalgleish made a note, and looked at the wing commander. “Your turn,” he said.

“I’m in charge of accounts,” the wing commander told Barton.

“Ah! You’ve got our back-pay?”

“Not yet, but don’t worry. The matter is being pursued.”

Bletchley said: “That means they’ve lost the files.”

“Oh no, sir. I can assure you it’s being very actively pursued.”

“That means they’ve lost the files,” Bletchley said, “but they’re looking for them.”

The wing commander gave Bletchley a bleak little smile. “Very droll,” he murmured. “The matter of arrears is, I’m afraid, out of my hands,” he told Barton. “What concerns me at the moment is the size of some of your officers’ mess-bills. To be frank, they’re living far beyond their income.”

He produced a typewritten list. Barton looked at the names and the amounts.

“You see?” the wing commander said. “I’m afraid I shall have to have a word with them.”

“Don’t do that,” Barton said. “Just… leave them alone, please.”

“Yes, but… Something’s got to be done, hasn’t it? They can’t go on like this?”

“They won’t,” Barton said. “I can assure you of that.”

Fanny Barton showered, changed, went to the mess and found CH3 in a corner with Moggy Cattermole.

Cattermole was badly scratched on both cheeks. “Bloody brambles,” he said. “They had to cut me out with scythes. I got rescued by a mob of sweaty peasants with string around their knees. None of them spoke English. I think it was the chorus from Cavalleria Rusticana , although what they’re doing in Kent at this time of year is hard to—”

“Listen,” Barton said. “What happened to you?”

“I just told CH3. Engine quit, so I hopped out.”

“Did you know the kite hit a house?”

“No, really? Pity. I was quite fond of that kite. Complete writeoff, I suppose?”

“Yes. Also three adults and a kid.”

“Ah.” Cattermole signaled a waiter. “Beers,” he said.

CH3 said: “You told me you were down to about a thousand feet when you jumped. You know that area, Moggy. You’ve flown over it a dozen times. You must have realized the kite would hit Ashford.”

“Yes. More or less.”

“You could have banked it away before you jumped, couldn’t you?”

Cattermole sucked in his breath. “Very dangerous. Very, very dangerous. Not much height, not much speed. She’d stall as quick as winking, wouldn’t she? And then where would I be? Baling out at five hundred feet? No, no. That’s not what the instructions say on the side of the packet.”

“But you could see Ashford was up ahead,” Barton said.

“Yes.”

“It didn’t occur to you to sit tight and try to miss the houses.”

“No.”

“Were you feeling okay?” CH3 asked. “Any dizziness or sickness or—”

“This is all very boring,” Cattermole said. “It was perfectly obvious that if I sat in that kite it was bound to crash and I would probably get killed. Anyone with an ounce of gallantry would have stayed at the controls and tried to miss the innocent bystanders. I haven’t got an ounce of gallantry. I don’t intend to kill myself to save three and a half civilians. It’s their war as well as mine, so they can jolly well take some of the risk.”

“That’s pretty bloody callous,” Barton said.

“I’m not so sure,” CH3 said. Their beers arrived. “People talk a lot of bullshit about civilians. Do civilians feel pain any more than you or I do? Of course not. So why give them special status?”

“Women and children last,” Barton said. “That’s charming.”

“Three and a half civilians can’t fly a Hurricane,” CH3 said.

“Get this straight,” Barton said to Cattermole. “We’re going to see Baggy Bletchley now. When you baled out, that kite was uncontrollable, and you were in a state of shock. Okay?”

“No, that’s pathetic,” CH3 said. “What have you got the jitters about? If Baggy can’t take the truth, that’s his tough luck.”

“And mine too. I carry the can, not you. We’ll do as I said.”

They finished their beers. Cattermole signed Barton’s name on the bar-chit. They went to see Baggy Bletchley.

“Bad luck, eh?” Bletchley said. “It seems you were left without any choice.”

“Not at all, sir,” Cattermole said. “I baled out because if I’d stayed in the plane I’d have been killed. I didn’t care a hoot about any civilians.”

“What did I tell you?” Bletchley said to Barton. “The poor fellow’s suffering from shock.” He slapped Cattermole on the back. “Shock does funny things to a man. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d forgotten all about it by tomorrow.”

“All about what, sir?” Cattermole asked.

“That’s the idea,” Bletchley said. “By the way, have you heard today’s score? Jerry lost forty-nine to our sixteen. Good, eh?”

“Told you so,” said CH3 to Barton.

“Oh, go to hell,” Barton snapped. Bletchley smiled benignly.

CH3 was woken by the tap and flicker of rain on his window. It was the most marvelous sound. He got up and looked out: ten-tenths cloud at five hundred feet and visibility so dreadful he couldn’t see the other side of the mess. A thoroughly unblitzy day. Lovely. It was half-past six. He went back to bed and slept until nine.

Nim Renouf was at breakfast. “That’s his third lot of bacon and eggs,” Cox told CH3. “On top of two bowls of porridge.”

“I’ve got to catch up,” Renouf said, buttering toast. “I didn’t get much to eat yesterday. Or the day before.”